The dawn rises over the silent fields,
and in their midst is a lonely farmhouse.
Abandoned each morning when I arrive,
and sits abandoned when darkness is nigh.
I reach the slot and push the paper in.
I turn and, behold! A shadow flies past.
Silent as a wraith with a ghost’s pale face,
tawny winged, it is the silent hunter;
the hunter of the scurrying below.
I watched its beautiful and silent glide,
as the dawn’s first rays marked eternity.
It faded in and out; a living dream.
All dreams fade and this one quickly followed.
Vanished into twilight; never seen again.
Disclaimer: I do not own the imagery used in this blog post and have no artistic claim to it.